April 4, 2008

My dearest,

I am terrible at remembering lines of poetry. They are like rays of light on a winter’s day. Here one moment, gone the next. I can’t ever capture them, not one, not for long. They escape, always. But they are beautiful even if I am unable to hold on to them.

Would you like me to recite some poetry for you? I know you too well; verses of love aren’t your thing. You find them cheesy; you know that they are mere proclamations. You are right, of course.

There is one line, though, that I always know.

Every word I pen, every word I utter, they form the line of beauty that leads me back to you. Yes, I fear my memory may fail me; it does most days. But this line of beauty leads me straight to you. Trust me, my dear, when words are forgotten and lost, I will still know my way back to you.

I will pen no lines of beauty but for you. You are my verses, my daily paragraph. You are my story and my song. There is no other joy for me but a life with you. You are my devotion.

Yours, ever and always.